The Dream

I could write something about living the dream. 

About the romance, the passion, the goal. 

I could write that the world is out there waiting for you, could tell you all you have to do is grab it. 

I guess those are fair points. 

There’s truth living in their syllables. 

But I think bloody knuckles and tired eyes make up more of the dream than anything. 

Anxiety, losing sleep. 

Split lips, sunburned wrists, long ass days and rope burns. 

The dream isn’t all the dreamy. 

It’s more like wearing glass shards for diamonds and blood for lipstick. 

Calloused up fingers, handshake like a man. 

Dues to be paid, money made. 

It’s not just a quote about following your heart. 

There’s a lot more blood in it than that.  

Inner war. 

Asking yourself every question that ever creeped through your conscience. 

Your eyes straining for sleep with your mind still screaming. 

‘Is this what you really want?’ 

‘Can you do it?’ 
And yet I have no earthly idea of what’s ahead of me. 
These are just my young, naìve ramblings. 
About things I haven’t earned the right to preach. 

But if I could tell you something and you’d believe it, I’d tell you to feel.

Don’t neglect to rest. 

I’d tell you to love, breathe, run. 

See the world. 

Get what you want. 

That’s life. 

No agendas or plans. 

Teach yourself to live without criteria. 

You’ll become the person you were destined to be. 

Scars like wounds earned in battle, worn with a sort of pride. 

They stayed with you to tell their story. 

Don’t you owe that to yourself? 

To hang with it long enough to tell your story?

Xoxo, Gussie